Dubiety
by Padfootz-luvr
Summary: “I just don’t think it was that big of a deal!” said Hermione./“Well, of course you don’t. She was paying you a compliment,” growled Sirius. “And she didn’t mistake you for my daughter, she mistook me for your father."/"Is there a difference?" SBHG.


_**Dubiety**_

**by**

**Padfootz-luvr**

**Disclaimer**: Nothing you recognize is mine.

**Full Summary: "I'm sorry, Sirius," said Hermione, none-too-sincerely. "I just don't think it was that big of a deal!"/"Well, of course _you_ don't. She was paying you a compliment," growled Sirius. "And she didn't mistake you my daughter, she mistook ****_me_ for my father."/"Is there a difference?" SBHG.**

**A/N:** Sirius and Hermione are already together. You can say he never died, or he came back from the veil, or she has already gone back in time and saved him somehow, fallen in love, etc...whatever strikes your fancy. You can provide your own backstory...this has just been buzzing around my mind for a while, and I had to _expel_ the random oneshot plot bunnies. P.s., this odd situation actually happened to my mother, when she was mistaken for her second husband's daughter. _Awwwwkwaaard._

--

It was one of those days where the breeze could not be felt, but seen. Lazy curls of clouds danced a sleepy ballet in the sky, arbitrarily wreathing around one another delicately.

Harry Potter was sprawled across an antique four-poster, calmly watching a white tendril creep across the blue expanse. He had been blindly monitoring its progress for an indeterminable amount of time, and was vaguely aware that he was drifting out of consciousness.

It was the perfect day for such inactivity. His window was thrown open, allowing the indiscernible breeze to creep in undetected, and the unapologetic sunlight spilled in audaciously.

It had been a trying week, and The-Boy-Who-Lived wanted nothing more than to welcome the inconsequential nothingness of a shallow nap.

The door slammed.

Walburga Black bellowed obscenities.

_Alas, it was not to be._

Harry sighed deeply, and rose from his resting place to the open doorway. He was, suddenly, very deeply regretting his decision to leave his room open to the rest of the house; and, therefore, the house's other occupants and comings and goings.

"IGNOMINOUS FILTH! TRAITOROUS WRETCH! ROOT OF MY DESPAIR! HOW YOU HAVE TAINTED THE FAMILY NAME BY ALLOWING THE BLOOD OF YOUR FATHERS TO MIX WITH THAT OF _HER_ KIND, THE SORDID—"

The witch's horrid wails ceased abruptly, and Harry hurried down after recognizing the especially derisive comments that Mrs. Black saved especially for her estranged son and daughter-in-law.

He rounded the landing and crept through the foyer as quickly and quietly as he could, then entered the kitchen to find the subjects of the portrait's vexations moving about the kitchen, unheeding of the newest arrival.

"Really, you are taking it rather harshly—" the young witch began pleadingly.

The older wizard snorted cynically, but did not turn away from the cupboard through which he was rummaging.

"Sirius! _Honestly_," she sighed, obviously frustrated. She turned her large, beseeching eyes to Harry, obviously asking for help, but he could only shrug as he took a seat near the kitchen's exit. He had no idea what had his godfather so upset.

Sirius's grasping hand emerged from the cupboard, clasped around the neck of a shimmering white bottle. He turned, noticing Harry and acknowledging his Godson by offering the bottle solicitously. At the younger man's polite refusal, the Black heir shrugged and slumped into his usual chair at the head of the table, twisting the icicle-like stopper out of the bottle with a hiss.

A cold cloud emerged from the newly opened drink as Sirius tipped the bottle back, like a lover's breath in the freezing air of winter.

Hermione Granger-Black's baleful glare did little to deter her husband from a second sip. She forwent her usual seat, at Sirius's right, and moved nearer to Harry's end of the table.

The two were dressed in comfortable, casual clothing appropriate for the weather, and Harry surmised they had just come from Muggle London.

Hermione's long curls were loose and wild, and her face was pleasantly flushed from exasperation; she looked younger than Harry had seen her in years.

Her husband's face, however, was drawn and serious; his coldness aged him, but did not belittle his aristocratic visage.

"Right, so…" Hermione and Sirius both looked at Harry sharply, evidently having forgotten his presence. "What happened, exactly?"

Sirius scowled darkly, reminding Harry of the darker versions of his Godfather he had known and seen in the past. It had been a long time since the young wizard had seen that man; he had certainly not seen any inkling of that man in over five years, since the couple's May-September romance had first come into being.

The young man recalled being shocked at the time, but those echoes of shock and reverberations of aversion had become shrouded in a thick veil of memories and realizations: the moment that Harry fully recognized his Godfather as the man in the photo at his parents wedding was the day that he first witnessed Sirius Black kiss Hermione Granger. It had been that exact moment when any disapproval that Harry might have felt was pushed to the side, as he saw the crystalline happiness that the two brought to each other through friendship and, eventually, love.

And yet, here in front of him, Harry saw his father's handsome, blithe best friend fade into the murderous prisoner of Azkaban. Such dark vestiges of the past occasionally manifested themselves in the Pureblood, but for the most part Hermione had brought about a distinct betterment.

It was as though, living in Sirius Black, there were two different people: Padfoot, Sirius, Hermione's husband and Harry's recklessly charming Godfather; and Sirius Black, pureblood heir and ex-convict, not entirely accepted by the Wizarding world despite pardons and formal apologies. Had they met someone in their outing that had reminded the Animagus of his still-standing status as an outsider?

Presently, Hermione was biting her bottom lip in a way that generally ignited very different things in the two men. Sirius would ordinarily replace her teeth with his own, followed abruptly by the rest of his mouth. Harry knew from years of friendship that Hermione bit her lips in a physical effort to withhold her thoughts, or draw a veil over information that she wanted very dearly to divulge. Harry also knew, however, that Hermione biting her lip was a last-ditch effort to avoid disclosure, and that she would break soon.

_But then again…_Harry's eyes narrowed slightly as Hermione remained silent. His bespectacled eyes darted to Sirius, who was avoiding his Godson's gaze resolutely.

Just when Harry had given up waiting for Hermione to crack, however…

"A clerk mistook me for Sirius's daughter." Immediately after speaking, Hermione covered her mouth with her fingertips, chocolate eyes widening and darting to her husband.

Sirius's glower was suddenly averted from the nearby cabinet. He threw his hands carelessly, palms up, as if to ask Hermione why.

"I'm sorry, Sirius," said Hermione, none-too-sincerely. "I just don't think it was that big of a deal!"

"Well, of course _you_ don't. She was paying you a compliment," growled Sirius. "And she didn't mistake you for my daughter, she mistook _me_ for your father."

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "Is there a difference?"

Harry watched interestedly as Sirius's expression turned aghast.

"There is _absolutely _a difference," he hissed.

Harry covered a chuckle with the back of his hand, but received a pair of identical, suspicious frowns nonetheless. "Well," he coughed, still trying to suppress anything that might resemble laughter. "What _exactly _did the clerk say?"

Sirius's lip curled and he looked away, crossing his arms; Harry knew he wouldn't be receiving any answers from _him_, so he turned to the wizard's better half.

Hermione watched Sirius carefully before answering, "She said something like, 'your daughter is pretty', I believe. And frankly, I was standing _right there_, and yet—"

"'You have a very beautiful daughter'," interrupted a melancholy voice. Sirius rolled his eyes miserably. "Those were her exact words."

In spite of Sirius's obvious unhappiness at the situation, Harry couldn't help but crack a grin at the blatant display of narcissism.

Hermione rolled her own eyes at her husband, then turned to Harry. "Tell him that he is reading too far into this."

"Sounds like she was mistaken for your daughter, mate," said Harry, before clearing his throat. "And besides...Er, well…I hate to point out the obvious, Sirius, but…I mean, as it happens, you _are_ old enough to be—"

"I'm aware, _thanks_," retorted the man, gritting his teeth. "I know, I'm twenty bloody years older than my wife; I know that more often than not, people probably only realize that I am not, in fact, her father, after I kiss her in a way that is hardly paternal—" Hermione blushed hotly, but Sirius continued on. "—although it certainly could be deemed indulgent; I know that I am closer in age to Mrs. Granger than her daughter; I know that there are many, even close friends, Order members, who do not nor will ever understand or accept our relationship, but _dammit_, it still hurts like hell to be reminded, daily, that she deserves better."

Harry stared, speechless. Hermione had risen and was standing beside her husband, holding his head to her heart: her heart to her heart. Sirius pulled away a bit, obviously uncomfortable at being seen in such a vulnerable state; he turned to his Godson, remorse showing plainly in his grey eyes.

"I'm—Sirius, I didn't mean—" Harry began, but was once again cut off.

"No, Harry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you at all, it's just…everything accumulates," he muttered, glancing away; he very apparently regretted his outburst.

"I understand completely," Harry murmured; but Sirius's attention was solely on his wife, now.

She held him close, kneeling down so that she was level with his chest. She stared up at his face carefully, her hands resting gently to hold his gaze. Anyone who watched Sirius's expression as he met her eyes, however, knew that he would never look away, willingly.

Harry was suddenly feeling very out-of-place; the couple had once again forgotten that they were not alone in the room, as they were in the habit of doing.

"Tell me what I can do to fix this," Hermione whispered, her gaze flitting across his features cautiously, carefully.

The corner of Sirius's mouth lifted grimly, and he shut his eyes, leaning his elbows onto his knees so that his chin found his wife's crown. He bent his head, allowing his lips to disappear into her tousled tendrils, and spoke, "Find me a method of time travel. That _is_one of your areas of expertise, is it not?" He smiled genuinely, sadly, as she pulled back.

"Oh?" she replied quietly, her lips all but touching his. Harry was thoroughly uncomfortable at this point, but he did not want his departure to disturb this miraculous thing. "And what would you do if you could go back in time? Stop yourself from marrying me?" She put on a teasing tone, but her eyes were serious.

"Never," he murmured against her lips.

"Well, I don't have my time-turner any more, so…" Hermione leaned in and kissed Sirius on the lips. "Tell me what I can do to make your _feel_ better…"

She trailed off, and Sirius grinned slyly, leaning forward to capture her mouth. Harry took that as his cue to leave, quietly standing and exiting the ancient room. As he made his way back toward his room, the streaming sunlight a welcoming foil to the dark staircase, he heard the strains of their dying conversation, permeated with sighing breaths.

Sirius's voice whispered, "But you deserve better."

There was no hesitation as Hermione replied, "There is no one better for me."

Harry silently agreed, shutting his bedroom door and resuming his previous position on his comfortable four-poster bed.

--

**I'd love to know what you think, if you would care to leave a review. Corrections rock, too.**


End file.
